


threw out our cloaks and our daggers, because it's morning now

by attonitos_gloria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, F/M, Fluff, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-27 20:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20766362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attonitos_gloria/pseuds/attonitos_gloria
Summary: “Do you play cyvasse?” Sansa asks, suddenly. Years of training under Petyr’s hand couldn’t help her hide her nerves now.He stops in his spot, frowning, confused. “If I play cyvasse?”Her bare hands intertwine in each other, and Tyrion watches her movements carefully.“Yes. Cyvasse,” she says, and straightens her spine.“Well, I do,” he answers, and for a second a sort of enlightenment passes through his face; but he soon hides it, his voice becoming casual, light.Sansa walks slowly towards the drawer, opens it, takes a wooden box in hand.“I don’t think we should play cyvasse on our wedding night, though,” Tyrion says, supporting his weight on the bench at the foot of the bed to take his boots off.[Another wedding night, but better.]





	threw out our cloaks and our daggers, because it's morning now

  
  
  


  


> _surely the wicked_  
_witches of our childhood have died and,_  
_from where they are buried, a great kindness _  
_has eclipsed their misdeeds. _
> 
> (be kind, michael blumenthal)

  
  
  
  
  
Their second wedding is diametrically opposed to the first in all the ways that count: it's Arya who gives her away, and Bran who officiates the wedding in the godswood. Tyrion had found it odd and funny that northern weddings didn't need priests, but he also didn't care enough about gods, old or new, to demand a ceremony with the blessing of a Septon (it was implied in their conversation about it that the Seven haven't done much for them). When she says _I take this man_ her voice is clear like a winter morning, and she thinks he looks moved. 

_No cloak this time_, they had agreed just in the previous week. She's dressed in white and light-gray, a gown that she'd sewed herself as she prepared her heart for this day, but he is sensible enough not to wear crimson and gold here, in the heart of Winterfell. Sunset falls over them as they kneel before the heart-tree, the red of the leaves glowing with golden highlights. Sansa prays to the gods of her father; she knows he's not doing the same, but when she opens her eyes his head is bowed in reverence (for what, she can't tell), and something in her heart dances, like a girl listening to her favorite song; he looks so out of place, this last Lannister man alive, Hand of the Queen, westerner and pagan among her gods and her family and her home. As if trying to bring some familiar, southern thing to this moment – this is his wedding as much as it is hers – Sansa Stark resurrects a wicked memory from their first marriage, lines that she was forced to repeat four years ago: he is already standing on his feet, reaching out his hand for her support; she accepts it, but before she can stand up, Sansa brings his gloved fingers to her lips, kissing his covered knuckles. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband.”

He's startled for three seconds, but recovers soon enough. With a single nod, meant only for his wife, Tyrion Lannister comes only closer enough to bow down and kiss the crown of her head. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” he whispers, quietly, against her forehead. “And take you for my lady and wife.”

…

The central place at the dais belongs to Bran, Lord of Winterfell, but the bride and groom are supposed to sit at his right. Tyrion chooses the chair at Bran's side, where he can talk with her brother during the feast. Sansa keeps Rickon between herself and Jon, just in case. Jon and Bran are the only people beside herself who actually truly enjoy her husband's company, and not merely tolerate it for her sake. So she's not offended that most of his attention is devoted to them during a great part of the dinner, a small party for the household of Winterfell and some friendly lords of minor houses of the North. Many were invited, not all of them came; more than one hoped to have their sons married to Winterfell's daughter, more than one wished they could marry her themselves.

But for the night, there's music, and beer, and they are all together and there's peace, a sort of peace. And Sansa does not want to think about politics. Bran told her not to worry.

So she doesn't worry – she spends her time talking with Arya and Rickon until Jon gets up, elegantly offering her his hand, palm up. “Will you honor me with this dance, my lady?”

There's a tradition in this. The husband is supposed to have the first dance, and then the father, but Sansa won't have either. She looks at Tyrion, silently asking.

“If my lady so wishes,” he shrugs, and smiles.

She takes her brother's hand and dances. And after him, she dances with Arya, and then with a random northerner lord in line, the kind of songs that would never play at a southerner wedding. She spares a look at the dais and catches a glimpse of her husband, watching her with his mismatched, inscrutable eyes.

When she comes back to her seat her breath is fast and she's giggling like a girl. “You should dance with me,” she says, still sounding out of breath, drunk in the lightness of the moment, sore feet, heart pounding. 

Tyrion merely laughs, his usual snorted, dry laughter; but his eyes are warm. “I wouldn't ruin your night like this, my lady.” And then, after a hesitant pause: “You were lovely, though, and I could watch you dancing the whole night through. Don't hold back because of me.”

Sansa takes a moment to look at his face, a flush finding her cheeks that has nothing to do with her dancing, and she smiles. It is small and shy, not one of the rehearsed smiles she's been perfecting in the last years. At some point during the feast, while Tyrion turned to his right to speak to Bran and she turned to her left to murmur something in Arya's ear, she notices her hand had slipped into her husband's, easily, like they've done this before.

…

There’s no bedding ceremony this time, either, and so she enters their private chambers completely dressed in her wedding gown.

Tyrion stays behind to close the door; Sansa’s breath is caught in her throat. Her hands are fidgeting, sweating inside her gloves. She takes them off, places it on the night-stand beside the bed. The mattress is covered in white furs. When she looks at Tyrion he’s staring at it, too.

When he realizes she’s observing him observing their bed, he looks down, to the ground, ashamed.

Sansa sees him licking his lower lip, and then he takes a step closer. “My lady,” he begins.

“Do you play cyvasse?” Sansa asks, suddenly. Years of training under Petyr’s hand couldn’t help her hide her nerves now.

He stops in his spot, frowning, confused. “If I play cyvasse?”

Her bare hands intertwine in each other, and Tyrion watches her movements carefully.

“Yes. Cyvasse,” she says, and straightens her spine.

“Well, I do,” he answers, and for a second a sort of enlightenment passes through his face; but he soon hides it, his voice becoming casual, light.

Sansa walks slowly towards the drawer, opens it, takes a wooden box in hand.

“I don’t think we should play cyvasse on our wedding night, though,” Tyrion says, supporting his weight on the bench at the foot of the bed to take his boots off.

Sansa looks at her twice-husband getting rid of his jerkin as well and stiffens, her knuckles white, tightening the box in her hands. She swallows down to clear her voice before she asks, calmly, “why not?”

He walks towards the fireplace. “Because I’ll win,” he declares. “And I would hate to upset you.”

She narrows her eyes, noticing his petulance before she notices her own relief. His challenge works like a spell. She moves to sit before the fireplace with him, their chairs across each other, separated by a small table. She opens the box, takes off the boards, the tiles, and the pieces – white and green, ivory and jade, heavy in her hand. When she looks up to him, he’s smirking.

“White or green?” She asks, daringly, her chin a little higher than usual.

“Green. Ladies first,” he grins, and Sansa starts to separate the jade little pieces, hands them to him. He settles the screen between their boards. “Who taught you?”

“Petyr,” she answers.

“Hmm,” he murmurs as he observes his board behind the screen, putting the tiles in place. “I should fear you, then.”

She lets out a little chuckle, doing the same with her board. “Perhaps.”

“Have you ever won?” He asks, curious.

She looks up to his face behind her eyelashes, a smile tugging the corner of her lips. “Why? Are you afraid?”

He crosses his arms, refusing to answer her, his eyes dark and sharp; Sansa tries to keep her smile small. He’s not the only one entitled to make challenges, here. She finishes her board sooner than he does, and he looks every inch a Lannister when he says, “so, are you ready, Lady Stark?”

…

Half an hour later, Sansa is looking at their boards and smiling widely. When she looks at her husband’s face again, he is pressing his lips against each other, trying to hide a smile. The fire burning in the hearth casts a golden glow in his ugly face, leaving the scarred side in shadows. She wonders if it should disturb her. It doesn’t, but maybe it’s just the high of winning that makes her feel untouchable.

“_Well_,” he says, leaning over the table between them to reach out to his King, currently about to be taken down. “That’s just beginner's luck, I’m sure.”

“But that was easy,” Sansa says. “And not my first time.”

“No need to boast,” he says, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Just be done with it.”

“Death in two,” Sansa calls. “You lose.”

“Congratulations, Lady Stark,” he mutters, reluctantly, and she laughs, merrily, mostly to herself.

The wood cracks under the fire, a gentle noise at their side as they stare at each other, both of them with ghosts of smiles hovering in their mouths.

Until–

“I call for vengeance,” Tyrion says, at last, leaning forward to reorganize the boards for another round.

Sansa curls one eyebrow. “You’ll get tired of losing.”

He clicks his tongue. “Watch your words, wife.”

…

The second round takes way much longer.

Sansa has taken off her boots as well, and the pins in her hair, and her earrings, and has loosened the ties of her gown. She plays the way Petyr taught her. There are some things she’s counting on: that Tyrion will underestimate her, that he thinks she is a defensive kind of player when she’s not, and that he’s messing with her emotions with all that confidence. She is focused, concentrated in each turn, while he plays easily, almost casually. She tries not to be distracted by him, by the way his arms look when he rolls up the sleeves of his tunic, by his eyes when he settles them on her – she feels them burning her skin even though she’s not watching him, by his hands – his hands, his hands, _his hands,_ as he reaches out to a elephant piece, or to his cup of wine, as he rubs his neck while it’s her turn, as he steeple his fingers when he’s thinking about his next move.

It’s not that her husband is easy to win; he’s _not_, but three hours later, Sansa is staring at the board, almost unconvinced herself, because –

“Oh, come _on_,” Tyrion groans, and she laughs.

“Beginner's luck, you said,” she says, giggling.

He still looks very much offended as he studies the board, as if he’s trying to trace his way back to the beginning of the game, replaying each move and each turn so he can spot the exact moment when he lost, because now that the stalemate is settled that way it is clear that it was an inevitable victory. His King is trapped all around.

“That was very elegant, I must admit,” he murmurs, and his voice is husky and dark, but there’s respect there, Sansa can tell, and her pride swells.

“Thank you, husband,” she says, the very soul of courtesy.

He finally looks up to her face, and keeps his eyes fixed on her for a very long time. They make her chest feel oddly warm. “So,” he murmurs, softly. “Won’t you call it?”

She smiles, and grasps her lower lip between her teeth for a second before she finally says it. “Death in five. You lose.”

He smiles – not a grin, not a smirk; a smile – and starts to reap the pieces, one by one putting them inside the box once more. “I think we’re done for the night.”

She thinks about making another jape about the fact he must be, indeed, tired of losing, but for some reason, she keeps it to herself, because a cold rests in her belly once more. It’s bed time, she knows, and he’s made her a promise, once.

Tyrion not even once stares at her again as he finishes putting the boards and the screen and the tiles in place, but somehow he knows; he must, because when he’s done, he says, without looking up at her face as he closes the wooden box, “I can sleep on that couch.” He stops. His gaze wander to the furs at their feet. “Or here. This carpet seems very comfortable.”

He says it so genuinely that Sansa laughs, a sound unexpected for them both. “That won’t be necessary, my lord,” she says, tenderly.

His eyes find hers, at last, and he nods in silence.

…

She gets out from behind the screen in their chambers only in her night-shift, a white, soft chemise that caresses her skin like a lover’s embrace. Tyrion is already tucked under the sheets, and so she approaches the bed, covering herself with the blankets as she lies down by his side, and for a couple of seconds they stare at the ceiling, and Sansa is wondering what will happen next.

He turns to the side, in slow, diffident moves. “Sansa,” he murmurs.

She turns her head to face him as well. There are candles burning at each side of the bed. The light is low; it flickers on his face, dancing in his features, revealing a little bit of fear and a little bit of kindness. “My lord?”

“Have a good night,” he whispers. “And pleasant dreams.”

And Sansa exhales a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

“You too, my lord,” she whispers back.

And then he settles on his back again, throwing his arm over his face and bringing the blanket with it, and Sansa listens to the sound of his breathing. She closes her eyes, turning her back to him. She’s seventeen and this is her third wedding night and her favorite, up until now: she is home, in Winterfell, and the snow is falling softly outside, and she’s an excellent cyvasse player–

Her eyes suddenly open in realization.

“Tyrion,” she says. Her voice is almost alarmed, but it’s not fear which fills it. It’s just–

“Yes?” He says, voice muffled beneath the sheets.

She turns around, lying on her side, facing him.

“Did you let me win?”

He keeps mute for a second, but when he answers she can swear she listens to a smile, even with his face hidden. “Sleep, Sansa.”

“No.” She pulls the blanket away, supporting her cheek on her palm and leaning on her elbow, coming closer to look upon him. “Answer me. Did you?”

He’s left with no choice but to look up to her. Her auburn hair falls all over him and he reaches out a hand to tuck it behind her ear in a gesture that looks like a reflex, but when she doesn’t flinch away he does it again, in a soothing, timid caress. “Only the first round,” he confesses in his deep, low voice. “But the second time I was completely at your mercy. It was very much real.”

And Sansa thinks–

_ah._

So she smiles, cups his cheek, and bends down until her mouth touches his in a gentle, slow kiss. He tastes of wine, and his lips are kind, and smooth, and for some reason, familiar, even though she’d never kissed him before. When she touches his tongue with hers it is hesitant and shy but she feels him gasping into her mouth, and it gives her courage. 

When she breaks apart, inches away from his face, his eyes are still closed.

“That was kind of you,” she whispers.

He only nods, stroking her cheekbone.

Sansa lies back in her place, thinks for a moment, and then slides to be near to him, until her cheek rests on his shoulder. “I’m not saying never, but tonight, could we just– is it all right if we just–”

He leans down to put his lips to her forehead. “_Sleep_, Sansa.”

And her whole body breathes out, relaxing, as she closes her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're not going to listen to Daylight by Taylor Swift then what's even the point.


End file.
